Put Me on a Plane
by dalai
Summary: series of non-related one shots. all characters included.
1. Chapter 1

**He sat silently in the fading Washington sun. The warm breeze carried with it the scent of May flowers and the sounds of the busy streets below. This time of year as never good for him. Here, in this place he'd come to love, spring inevitably brought death, and summer saw him struggling to crawl back out of the hole. Kate, Gibbs, Jeanne, Jenny. Every year, something as lost, and he was fighting the evidence that he'd lost too much of himself to survive this coming tragedy. **

**If it had been any other time of year, maybe he'd have hope. Not now, though. Not during May, suspended as they were between bitter winter and oppressively humid summer. Any other time, and he'd almost be able to believe that his desperate struggles might do some good. But now… now he fought as a dying man: painful, fruitless battles. He fought because he didn't remember how to do anything else. Because even knowing that May could bring no happy endings, he was simply unable to let go without at least **_**trying**_** to save them.**

**She'd lied to him, before, in the elevator. She'd lied to his face and he'd known in that moment just exactly what brand of pain he could expect this May. He thought, somewhat whimsically, that he should start taking the stairs. Through all those years of abrupt stopping and starting, the metal box remained miraculously unbroken. He'd fared significantly less well, since something in his life seemed to shatter every time the emergency stop as pulled. Yes, he really should just take the stairs.**

**The problem was, he knew this year would be significantly more painful than the others. Not because, as Ziva contended, he was jealous (although he was). And not even, as Abby suspected, because he loved her (although he did). No, this year he'd suffer because he quite honestly couldn't remember how he coped before her. **

**She had appeared out of nowhere before he'd even had the chance to fully comprehend the feel of Kate's blood on his face. She had teased him about phone sex and told him of his little sister and made him smile hen doing so had seemed an impossible task. When McGee mentioned fraternizing, only half in jest, he'd realized it had never occurred to him to think of her as the enemy. **

**A year later, when his world was still trembling from the impact of the explosion, she had appeared just as suddenly at his door with Thai food and a movie. In the flickering light, as Cary Grant walloped Jimmy Stewart, she'd casually declared that he'd do just fine and he'd forgotten to doubt her. The dust began to settle.**

**He'd snapped at her continually after the loss of Jeanne. He had screwed up after all. It was careless, and if there was one thing he wanted less than comfort, it was Mossad-style stiff upper lip speeches. Never one to back away from a challenge, she had all but browbeat him back to sanity.**

**And Jenny. She'd been glued to his side from the time he'd called Gibbs to the moment he'd boarded the plane. He didn't doubt for a second that she'd have ganged up with him against McGee, even knowing full well that she agreed with the Probie. She'd run interference with Abby. She'd settled his frantic mind.**

**He just wasn't sure that without the teasing and browbeating and unconditional acceptance he would be strong enough to make it to next May. Eleven months just wasn't enough time.**

**Lost as he was in these fatalistic thought, he still felt her approach before he heard it. Uncharacteristically hesitant, she paused several feet behind him. Distance he felt, was something he ought to get used to. He moved to regard her with solemn eyes. Her own caramel ones reflected his knowledge back at him in the warm spring air. It was all he needed.**

"**Tony-," her voice was soft with resignation. **

**He turned his back on her explanations as the sun began to fade into the skyline. He didn't ant to miss its departure. It was getting far too easy for things to slip away when he wasn't watching. As the orb dropped into dusky silence, he made his reply:**

"**No such thing as a happy ending in May."**

**That she didn't understand served to underline the truth of the situation. **

**He hadn't expected her to get it.**


	2. Chapter 3

The slow tread of weary feet heralded the arrival of the young agent. The silver-haired man paused in his careful sanding at the sound of the basement door. He made sure to return to the methodical motion as his second approached. Expecting the familiar sounds of the Italian lowering himself onto the third stair from the bottom, Leroy Jethro Gibbs was mildly surprised to find the younger man standing just to his right. It was a familiar position, Gibbs had grown well-used to facing all manner of evil with the steady presence at his back. He had missed it when the younger man had been at sea.

On this particular night, however, something felt terribly off with the scenario. Still facing his boat, gut churning, he could very nearly feel the emotion churning beneath his agent's skin. Unable to quash the feeling that his family was facing yet another irrevocable shift, he hesitated a moment more before turning. Somehow he knew, he knew that the moment he faced the other there would be no way to halt what would then unfold. Which didn't mean he wouldn't try. With the sigh of a man facing the firing squad, he slowly revolved to face Tony.

Even anticipating the worst, Gibbs was taken aback by the sight before him. The always lively man was gone, replaced by a much older, much more subdued version. Lined face and stormy eyes, the silent figure had clearly been to hell and back. Or perhaps he had not yet made it back.

Over the past eight years, he had watched the younger agent plummet to the depths again and again. Helping where he could, he had watched with pride as the man climbed painfully back with a grin and a joke. The absolute defeat looking back at him from green eyes inspired a rare thrill of fear. Maybe this time it was finally too much. Maybe the building exhaustion from each of the previous trials had finally overcome him. It didn't seem like he could come back this time. Worse, it didn't look as if he even wanted to.

With those deadened eyes, Tony wordlessly reached to his belt and offered the shining gold badge as a last ditch sacrifice. Shaking his head slightly, Gibbs murmured his name even while realizing its futility.

The younger man mirrored the slight headshake.

"Boss-," he began softly, "Please."

The pleading tone caught him off-guard for what seemed like the hundreth time that night. Being thrown constantly askew that way stole the gruff refusal he was searching for. Instead, all he came up with as the question.

"And just what the hell does this fix?"

The responding sigh held the same not-quite-pity his own voice had echoed with as he tried to explain death to Amanda Lee. The words rang out as clearly as if they'd been spoken: some things just can't be fixed. The realization, while hardly new, made him fell simultaneously very young and very old.

"I can't be responsible anymore," the words were soft, but as resolute as a grave. "Not for Abby's tears, or the destruction of McGee's naivety, or for you shouldering even more loss. I can't carry any more death. It's too much."

And maybe defeat was contagious, because it wasn't until the closing of the front door echoed through the house that Gibbs even realized he had wanted to fight this.


	3. Chapter 2

Ziva David was no stranger to pain. Admittedly, her current physical state was far from pleasant. Still, she'd had worse and was in no way unable to fight through this hazy agony. She knew, without opening her eyes, that she was no longer chained to the hard metal chair that had been her home for close to two months.

If the sharp smell of antiseptic and oppressive weight of plaster on her legs were any indication, she was slowly returning to consciousness in a hospital somewhere. This, like the pain that had become her constant companion, was not unfamiliar to her. Not as unfamiliar as she'd like, anyway. The trace of pride at realizing where she was amused her. It had taken far longer than it ought to have to work the situation out, but she allowed herself the leeway just this once. She had earned it after all.

Opening her eyes seemed ridiculously difficult, but the rush of relief at confirming her apparent safety justified the effort. She was totally prepared for the quick pain brought on by bright lights reflecting off too white walls. What she wasn't ready for, what caught her totally off-guard was the rush of an entirely different kind of pain at seeing how completely empty the sterile room was.

That, she felt, was very, very stupid. She was as used to being alone as she was to pain. That she was disappointed, that she was even surprised was not only ridiculous, it was dangerous. Perhaps her father was right. Perhaps America had made her soft.

She could almost see Tony's incredulous smile at that thought. She could even almost concede mind-Tony's point. Soft? She'd just survived two months of methodical torture without so much as a sound. Hardly soft…and yet, wanting her dysfunctional family with her as acutely as she did was weak. Weak and foolish, after dismissing them as carelessly as she had in the hot Israeli sun.

So lost was she in her self-reproach, she didn't notice the quiet swoosh of the opening door. Didn't quite catch the bitter hint of coffee through a broken and swollen nose. Her momentary surprise and and chagrin at being so caught out were rushed away in a flood of joyful relief at the sound of the gruff voice.

"Thought I told you to take care of yourself, David."

Uncharacteristically soft blue eyes met caramel ones through layers of bruising. Cracked lips stretched into a painful, bloody smile. And the battered young woman's guilt and self-chastising found a new target.

She should not have doubted this man. Not for even a moment. Hard as he was, he had never made feel anything short of trusted. Trusted, and maybe even loved. Gibbs and his team of sappy followers. No, she mentally corrected, scrappy. Tony would be proud.

The thought of her partner wiped the smile away with the brutal efficiency of a blow. Straining tired eyes, she tried to surreptitiously glance into the adjoining hallway for some trace of Gibb's second. That she even attempted to fool the man was indication that she'd been away too long.

"He isn't there", her former boss offered with what she felt was an almost sadistic gleam in those blue eyes. Not finding any words to make that better, she clamped down hard on her disappointment. She was tired and in pain and hazy with drugs, that was the only reason she felt so poorly. That's what she would make herself believe. She had no idea why she should even be surprised. She'd made it clear with words as hard and cold as the barrel of her gun against his heart that she wanted nothing to do with her. Why should she expect him to care if she lived or died?

"He was tired", Gibbs continued through her glare, "needed rest." She had forgotten how easy it as to hate that pithy disinterest.

There had been a time, she knew, when he'd have been at her side until he collapsed. Sleep, he had told her once with an impish grin, was a luxury, Partnership was not. That time was long gone, however, and neither had been bothered to fight for it.

"I can get him," Gibbs offered with an innocuous sip of his coffee.

Her answer was a rasp.

"Don' bother." She blamed the misery in that unfamiliarly weak voice on any number of a multitude of injuries.

Confusion took hold as Gibbs moved around toward the doorless wall to her right with a glib "No trouble." It only grew as he moved as though he'd kick the corner of her bed. The expected jolt never came.

Whatever she had expected as he released his foot, it wasn't at all what happened.

The reaction was immediate. Sleep-tousled brown hair shot into view as it's owner yelped out "She okay, Boss?"

She simply stared as Gibbs instructed the head to "Ask her your damned self, Dinozzo."

And with all the grace of a drunken toddler, her partner shot to his feet. A huge smile broke out on his face as he took in the open and quizzical brown eyes. That as all it took. For the first time since her hands had touched Michael's blood, Ziva David felt the welcome return of hope and normalcy.

As she opened her mouth to make a quip about sleeping on the floor, her words were quick and clever and, for the first time in over a year, completely without bitterness.


	4. Chapter 4

So, I maybe should have mentioned this before, but I don't own it.

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Katom. Little Katom. That's what Ari had called her before he had been too far lost to tease them in that always gentle way of his. Before Tali had been simply lost. Ziva had adopted the nickname with a grin and a laugh. From that day forward, their Tali had been Katom. The name, it had been often pointed out, was completely fitting. No one, young Ziva thought, in the wide, sprawling history of the world had eaten oranges with the same abandonless joy as her sister. Whenever the assassin she became paused to recall the once happy little family, the first image was always little Tali, sticky with sweet juice, laughing crazily as Ari spun her round and round on strong shoulders. Sister's squeals and father's indulgent chuckle, and she wondered at her carelessness for ever letting that moment end.

By the time she was sixteen, Tali had indulged in more of the fruit than Ziva could imagine. The sheer volume had done nothing to diminish the smile that lit delicate features as she tore into the peel that hot day at the market. Ziva, home only for a day from training, had carefully and lovingly selected the two finest orbs from the seller's stand. Walking hand in hand, the young sisters had taken solace from the blistering sun in a rare spot of shade. Tali's ever-playful chatter had soothed her now ever-jangling nerves. She smiled her genuine contentment as she cut into the fruit.

Katom. The word stood out in her mind against the vibrant sounds of market chaos. Her slender hands, sticky and coated, stilled in the perfumed air.

And then her world was fire and dust.

In the swirling horror of realization, the newly minted officer lost her training. Action seemed impossible, and yet she moved. Heat and loss made her dizzy, yet she kept her feet.

There was a moment, between the screams and the sirens, of absurd stillness. In the total silence of imagined reprieve, she almost forgot.

Katom. The word stood out in her mind. Slender hands, sticky and coated, stilled in the perfumed air.

And then the world began again.

She breathed deeply, choking on reality. As eyes and mind reconnected, she took in the sight of reddened hands. Such a small change, from orange to red. Such a slight difference. The stickiness, the way the smell permeated the air; so, so similar. But everything had changed, and for the first and last times, blood overwhelmed her vision. At a loss, Ziva David promptly vomited.

It was Ari who found her there, moments or days later. Blood on his hands, too, gloved as the would-be doctor moved amongst the wreckage. His voice, not yet cold and detached, cracked as he came to her.

"Oh, Ziva." And again, "Oh, Ziva. We thought we'd lost you too."

Too. The word stole her movement as nothing else could.

Cradling her to his chest like an infant, her brother carried her the short distance to their home. To Tali's home. Had they really been so near to safety?

It would be days before she learned that he had carried Tali, so broken, the same way. Days before she understood the horror in the "no" that had slipped past her father's steely reserve as she lay, so still, in her brother's gentle clasp. Days before she could recall the tear that had slipped from his eye when she had lifted her head. Longer to comprehend it. Days and days before they were too consumed by bloodlust to remember the family they still had left.

And it would be years before she could look at an orange without intermingling Tali's laugh with the screams. She never quite could smell that overwhelming sweetness without feeling the blood on her hands.

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Thanks to everyone who reviewed or favorited this. I really appreciate it. I have a much happier addition for this that might be posted tomorrow (contingent upon finals and the number of reviews I get.)

Please, review! It'll assuage my guilt for blowing off studying in order to write this. Any feedback on any chapter is welcome! I was a bit disheartened by the lack of response last time. Which means my two reviewers are officially my favs.


	5. Chapter 5

**This one is a follow up to the last one. Just so you're not confused. Also, not mine.**

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**He had filed it away with all the other charmingly inexplicable quirks he was discovering as trust grew into friendship. It was there, in the back of his mind, nestled safely amongst misplaced idioms. Just to the right of her love of warm root beer and frosty smoothies. Tucked behind the centuries old guilt that was still present enough to make her mention keeping kosher with every Philly Cheese steak she unwrapped, but not so strong as to stop her appreciative groan at the first tempting bite.**

**Still, her aversion went beyond reason. It was almost a visceral thing, and the agents quickly learned that they took their lives in their hands each time they were audacious enough to crack the juicy peel. Which was fine with him, he'd never been much for fruit. Besides, he was averaging three horrifically creative death threats a day without tempting fate.**

**She'd been with them a year when he finally asked. They'd both been significantly more drunk than was strictly prudent, but the case had been a long one, and God knew they both had more than enough to forget this time of year. **

**The question had come from nowhere at all. The product of a hazy mind tumbling through all the information he had come to know about the woman across from him. And, drunk as they were, he was still surprised when she began to speak. He remembered the sister she'd mentioned that rainy night when they'd still been not-quite-enemies. He recalled the cool silence of autopsy when it was all over, where she had tried to explain, through their conflicting grief, that her brother had not always been a monster, a creature of darkness and revenge. Never would it have occurred to him, however, to connect those sorrows to the innocuous-looking little globes. His heart had broken for her through its whiskey-shield, and he'd known he'd eaten his last orange.**

**The next morning, when they'd come slouching into the bullpen, he had seen regret flash through tired eyes. Honesty came at a price for people like them, and they respected the necessity of the other's walls. Regret had been chased away by the louder than usual barking and sadistically frequent headslaps that Gibbs felt should accompany hangovers. Normalcy, in all its random, chaotic glory, settled in.**

**More than six months of teasing and dead marines had gone by, and the conversation had been well and truly forgotten. Then, on a Tuesday, McGee had received a basket of fruit. Preoccupied by the case, as well as by the ensuing merciless taunting of their Probie, Ziva did not notice the suspicious empty places among the apples and pears. That is, she didn't until she spotted the bright globe disappearing surreptitiously into a desk drawer. **

**Waiting until Gibbs had offered a gruff "With me" to her partner, she took the four steps necessary to place her behind his desk. Curiously, she tugged the offending drawer open. She stood, nonplussed, for a long moment before the significance of a drawer filled with citrus finally hit her. The motive behind the strange development left her feeling oddly at ease as she reached to wrap slender hands around the topmost fruit. With something approaching reverence, Ziva David ran the tips of her fingers lightly over the smooth skin.**

**Beyond her smiling chastisement that a grown man should know a grapefruit from an orange and the loaded look that followed it, the incident was never discussed. Their lives had well and truly intertwined, but their combined history made the result feel so impossibly fragile. Some things simply went unsaid, for fear of crushing the delicate balance.**

**Years later, and it had been actions, not carefully guarded words, which had crushed them finally. Standing before her father and swimming in loss, she barely registered his question. Her name, a gentle command, and the question came again. Was she truly more loyal to her betrayers than her family? Why?**

**Her mind was hazy again, from grief this time, and she stood no chance of articulating the reasons. Not even in her own mind. In her confusion, Tony looked out at her with Tali's deep eyes and Ari's charming grin, but it was his laughter which rang in her ears. Always his. **

**And the only reason she had to offer was the cool smoothness of an orange's peel.**

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**Not sure how I feel about this one. Definitely not my favorite. Let me know what you thought, please. **

**Next up, my first foray into the Pachinko Machine that is Abigail Sciuto's mind. Should be fun.**


	6. Chapter 6

So, you probably know this, but it isn't mine…

this story, and the next, were originally published individually. i've decided to add them to this collection out of a personal need for conciseness. if you've read them already, i apologize. if you haven't, enjoy. they got next to no reviews before, which made my heart sad, so if you have a minute please review. if i ever get consistent internet access again, i promise, more new stuff will come...

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All people, everywhere, want the same thing. Sure, they call it by different names, names like _family_ and _career_ and _home_. People claim to have unique desires, as if _wanting_ something better than your neighbor wants somehow makes _you_ better. But people are liars, and people are wrong.

All anyone really wants is to have something that is real and theirs, simultaneously.

Reality is hard to come by, these days, but ownership is not. So people collect and collect and own and own. Mountains of nothing. Palaces of it. And none of it is real, so the richest king and the poorest pauper will keep on desiring.

He was no different, being human, after all. And growing up in a veritable museum of crushed hopes and the finest nothings money could buy had not done a thing to alleviate his longing.

Death was real. Easy, too, in the scheme of things. But no one wanted to make it theirs. No one but loonies and sad souls who gathered and gathered their nothings together until they were too tired to pretend they were somethings.

He was tired, too. Deeply exhausted, but he didn't know how to quit.

He made jokes to take the edge off the reality of it. He laughed to make it all seem fake. And he went home at night to pour his whole being into believing that the flickering screen held something close to real. It kept him alive.

It was harder than it looked.

Armed to the teeth with dates and plotlines, titles and charm smiles, he did battle each day with what is real. Unalterably and undeniably. With what he loathed and feared and prayed for in turns.

He wasn't a miserable man. He wasn't even an unhappy one, not really. He had _family_ and _career_ and _home_. He was a good enough pretender to believe, sometimes, that they were real and they were his.

So sometimes, a lot of the time, the smiles weren't even pretending. And sometimes he was happy. Sometimes he could look at his life and be proud of the good he did and the people, honest and loyal people, who loved him back. Sometimes. Most of the time.

And those times were mostly enough to chase away the doubts that came as he looked death in the eye. Those occasional moments of uncertainty when the camera flash was bright enough to blank out the lies and leave knowing in their place.

They were always gone in an instant, vanishing with the light that brought them, and long hours pouring over the photographs showed only the empty remnant of another empty life. Truth could not be so caught out, restrained to a carbon copy of a moment. Truth was _real_ and so he longed for it, almost desperately.

But truth would not be his.

In the wake of those moments of wide-eyed searching, he inevitably found himself mentioning some movie or other. Smile firmly back in place, stomach churning somewhere in the vicinity of his kneecaps, he watched the credits roll on his life. And he prayed. He begged for it to mean something. Anything. _Please._

But he was no Pinocchio, and what is fake can not be made real.

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Hope you enjoyed my end-of-exam-week celebratory one shot! Please, please review, even if you hated it (I'm clearly not above begging.) thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

This is a sort-of aliyah related piece. No real spoilers, though, and it doesn't have to be aliyah if you don't like. I don't own a thing, but I hope you enjoy it anyway…

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The little girl had been wearing blue when she asked. The question had been as innocuous as the popsicle stain on entrancingly sky blue fabric.

The cop in him had wanted to ask where her mother was. Had wanted to tell her to go home, to stay away from strangers before she got herself killed. Didn't she know there was enough death in this world already? Enough pain?

But she didn't know, and so he simply regarded her impassively in the fading sunlight of the park.

"Well?" she had asked, tapping her foot with all the impatience she could muster up in her four-year old body. "What happened to them?"

A sigh. Hands caressing the too new rubber. He had no time for little girls who asked questions with answers that were too big, too gruesome, for their narrow worlds.

Except he did have time. He had nothing but time. Time and memories which were too big for even his grown-up world.

Briefly, he considered telling her the truth. He had enough on his conscience, anyway, without lying to children. So he considered describing to her, if she could understand, the sensation of flying. Of splintering glass and animal eyes which had darted, never connecting, from one unseen danger to the next. Of the not-pain which should be pain, and the ever-soldier outlined against a hospital window as he resigned himself to the loss of another family.

He could do it, he knew. Could unload his grief and confusion onto the unsuspecting shoulders of the braid-haired child whose too busy mother would likely be mortified by her tactless questioning. Who would hurry the child indoors with the stern words of those too secure in their lives, too afraid to face all of the things that might go wrong. Don't stare. Don't ask, she would whisper, dragging the girl away to safety and warmth beyond the reach of nightmares and consequence. Likely, she would cast one terrified look back, and then be gone. And nothing would be explained, nothing understood.

But he had seen innocence destroyed in Abby's eyes as she struggled with an enemy she could not bring herself to hate. Had heard it in McGee's stuttered apologies as he fought to find words in his writer's repetoire that might make them okay again. Had known it in the spaces between the old doctor's rambling tales and muddled explanations…and he had known it, to his very core, in the words no longer at her disposal.

She was only trying to help, he would tell the child. Only trying to save him from the monsters he could not see, but understood. Which she could only battle and never understand. Because everyone breaks, everyone cracks. And so she had sworn that she'd never be taken alive.

And he hated himself for wishing she had kept her word…

He could tell her those things, could punish her sincerity and her wide-eyed wonder. He could tell her what the end result of loyalty was. Could show her the way fairy tales really ended, with love unrequited and unrewarded. The princess lost in some far-off tower even as she stood, unchained. Damned forever to a breathing death, to a nightmare sleep. The prince, who had once flown, imprisoned forever in his throne while the king looked helplessly on, cursed to build boats which could carry no one to safer shores. And all of them jesters: laughed at, but without laughter.

He _had_ flown that night, caught off-guard by the force in her tiny shattered body as she shoved him to "safety". Mesmerized by eyes that had darkened from their usual whiskey hue. Amber, when the sun hit them just right. Smiling and teasing and shielding eyes…now black…and now darting…and now empty…

Glassy, as glassy and empty as the window before it, too, had been broken...and he had shattered too…

Suddenly, then, his eyes were drawn to the stain again. Purple on blue. Remnants of a sun-soaked afternoon spent successfully wrangling ice cream trucks.

And he couldn't. He couldn't tell her that flying was just falling until the earth caught you up again, too greedy to leave even one moment of weightlessness unpunished. It was wrong, in the invincible summer light, to reveal how fragile they were. The superheroes who had lost their powers, lost themselves without even an epic battle. Who had been their own villains.

Running aching fingers again over the wheels that now carried him without any of the grace his legs once had, he offered up the only benediction left to a now-capeless hero…He lied.

"I flew," came his whisper, "through the clouds and into the stars."

The child's wide-eyed acceptance would have broken him, had their been anything left to break.

"Does it hurt?", the awed question directed at lifeless legs.

He left her with the doctor's answer as he propelled himself into the gathering dark. He couldn't feel a thing. But the truth was, it hurt every single day.

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_**So, there it is. Please review and tell me what you thought. Was it too confusing? Did the point get across? Thanks, dalai.**_


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